Our Better Days
by There is Only Darkness
Summary: A tale of Victor in his younger years. How his mother left, and why Victoria is the only one he'll ever grow to love as family and cherish as a younger sister forevermore. Potential spoilers ahead.


Everyday was the same. I'd wake every morning, greet my father, and ponder his ludicrous actions. It isn't always that I fault him for my mother walking out on us just as she had five years ago, claiming that my father was a madman and wanted nothing to do with me afterward. Naturally, and many a time I do blame him in the end, but sometimes my mother was a odd woman with her wispy hair and rash courses of action. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before she casted the two of us aside in search of a better, more glamorous life.

So after a time, it was only my father and I. The two of us always did more studying than what was good for us. However, I never really felt close to my father. It was far from a feeling of hatred, but it was far from affection as well. After many years of pondering I'd learned that I never really held any sort of affection for anyone, my mother included. Her departure was only problematic in my eyes in terms of how my father would take it. Would he lash out and hit her? No, my father was a relatively rational man, unlike the woman he married eight years ago. I still wonder why the two of them wanted anything to do with each other.

But enough questions.

Face deep in a text book, I dangle my legs on my chair in the kitchen. Much to my irritation, my glasses would slide down my nose and into my lap on occasion, annoying the living heck out of me.

"Bath," my father would say, face deep in a big book about the crystals. "Your face is oily."

So I did.

When I return back to my book smelling of soap and stale water, I try once again to read its pages. Again my glasses part with my rounded, curious face, and I cast them aside in a fit of rage.

My father looks over at me. "Dry your face with a towel next time. It's still wet."

Despite being cold from my earlier bath, my face goes red with annoyance and rage. "Nothing you say is helping at all, Father!" I say, calm yet bubbling with fury.

"Think," he orders, then goes back to his book.

I already know I do enough thinking without the aid of my father telling me to do so. Much like him, I am a rational young boy and that involves thinking things through many times before putting a plan into action. "I'm going out," I say quietly, still settling my quaking limbs. Perhaps I've delved too deep into my thoughts today. They've left me angry, and anger leads to irrationality and decisions made on an impulse.

Exhaling, I make for the door. As always, my father doesn't even bat an eye. He continues to fuel his obsession for the crystals as I make for the courtyard. There is grey everywhere, and people of all ages and sizes roam the streets. I am careful where I step, as I am smaller than most of them. Tugging my white trench coat closer to my sides, I press on, listening to the street performers play their instruments. Among them I spot a young girl with peculiar blue hair. Her appearance is unnatural in my eyes, but in a fascinating way. She plays the violin beautifully, though I haven't much of a taste for music. Normally this kind of thing would warrant further investigation, but I drop the thought the moment I drop a coin into a hat lying on the ground. She smiles at me as I walk away, continuing to dazzle the crowds with her violin.

Then I spot a tall woman with a baby saddled in her arm and a young girl occupying her other hand. She has long, jet black hair and olive hued skin. Her eyes are dark, but look friendly enough. "Young boy!" she calls out with no specific target in mind. She calls out again and locks eyes with me. I respond by looking in her direction.

"Young boy," she says again, walking closer to me. Her baby fusses, and like a caring, gentle mother, rocks the child in her one aching arm. "I've a task for you," she says. In her other hand, the young girl says nothing, standing still like a statue. Like her mother, she bears black hair, dark eyes, and dark olive skin.

"Ummm, all right." I stutter, glancing up at her. People continue to fill the streets, weaving around us.

"Excellent. Now, close your eyes, Boy," she says in a loving, lulling voice. I watch her bounce her baby up and down gently in her arm and comply.

"Keep them closed now," she warns, and something fills my hand. I open my eyes only when I hear the girl scream and cry out for her mother, but by then she's dispersed into the crowd and far out of reach. The girl cries out, voice breaking and tears falling. Much of a contrast to the lifeless persona she had on mere moments ago. I hold my grip on her hand. I know this feeling, though I've never acted it out. Fury bubbles in my chest. "Quit it," I command, life threateningly gripping the girl's hand. "She doesn't want you anymore."

She stops struggling against my crushing grip and looks up at me with watery eyes, utterly speechless. A man bumps into her, but she pays him no mind. Her focus in undivided and on me.

I walk gradually to test her, and she follows, seeing no other option. Though she's reluctant, the girl complies. I eventually get her to a steady stroll. "Let's go home," I say, and am not met with any objections. Our walk back home is a quiet one. I take the time to shut out the chatter around me and think about my father's words. I learn of cause and effect that day. I'll never forget this day, nor of my father's words. Not ever.

The blue haired girl with the violin glances at me again, expecting a cheery response.

I don't even bat an eye.


End file.
